When Sandor passed Sansa in the hall the next morning, she smiled at him.

It was a small smile, not enough that anyone else would notice – but he noticed, and he knew it was meant for him.

It made him feel sick.

Part of him wished he had hurt her last night. Just to show her how stupid she was for thinking that being alone with him was not dangerous. He should have done something, anything to shake away her notions of chivalry and kindness. He was not a kind man.

But he couldn't take back the interaction. For a moment he had been kind, and he knew that Sansa would cling to that kindness. Cling to it because it was probably the only real kindness she'd seen in months. How twisted that it came from him. How wrong that she would only be disappointed from this point forward. It was a cruel joke that he'd been the one to protect her decency in the court, that he'd been the one to find her last night. The Gods were pushing him into her life for their own amusement. Watching to see how long he could take it before it broke him.

And Sandor had dreams about breaking.

For weeks, he'd had dreams about finding himself alone with Sansa. They were unceasing, especially after a night of drink. Dreams in which it didn't matter that he was a dog and she was the king's future wife. Dreams that reminded him of just what he was capable of if he ever let himself lose control around her.

Last night had almost pushed him to the brink. When he slammed her against that tree. When she'd begged him to do it and prove that he would hurt her, he had almost done it. It was not that he wanted to hurt her. It was that he wanted to take her. Pain was just a side effect. He had found his control just in time, reminding himself that it would be his life if he slipped. Sandor wanted to tell himself that that was the only reason he'd stopped – because as miserable as his life was, he did not want to be killed for something like this. But he knew the real reason was her. It was always her.

He hated her for it, but not as much as he hated himself.

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When Sansa smiled at him, he looked as though he might kill her.

The Hound was a source of constant confusion for her. A man feared by everyone, who wasn't governed by morals of right and wrong. But at the same time, a man who had never been cruel to her, who had even shown kindness once or twice. But Sansa realized that it was a delicate balancing game. And she wondered sometimes what might happen if she caught him in the wrong mood or found herself alone with him when he did not feel like indulging her ramblings.

How very much like a dog, she thought. A wild dog. One moment it was willing to walk alongside you, the next moment it was ready to attack. It was frustrating, never knowing which version she would meet next. Never knowing how safe he really was. But still, she preferred him to anyone else in court. She preferred his company to the king's. Joffrey's moods were ever changing, too. But when he lashed out, he hurt her. Sansa was finally beginning to feel better after the scene he'd made in court, but she dreaded seeing him again. It was best when their meetings were brief and infrequent. It gave her time to heal and prepare for the next encounter. Always preparing, always dreading. That was how she lived now – so very different from the carefree days she'd spent at Winterfell.

Sansa liked to imagine her brother Robb storming across the land, cutting down men who were loyal to the Lannisters and coming to take her away from here. They would go someplace safe, where Arya and her family would be waiting. She decided that she would apologize to her sister the next time she saw her. Because perhaps if she had been as brave as Arya, if she'd been less concerned about propriety and doing what she was told, perhaps she would not be trapped here now. Sansa had never loved the outdoors the way Arya did, but she still thought that she would be happier eating in the dirt and escaping through the woods to safety than sleeping on her feather bed in King's Landing.

"My lady, what is this?"

Sansa entered her chambers and found Shae holding up the Hound's stained white cloak.

"I found it under your bed when I was changing the linens," Shae continued, "Surely you did not wish to keep it?"

Her gaze told Sansa that she knew more than she was letting on. As was so often with Shae, she spoke in words that veiled the real situation. Sometimes Sansa wondered if she was a spy – or used to be. She always spoke carefully, but had a way of looking at Sansa that told her something entirely different than the words that came out of her mouth.

"Of course I didn't mean to keep it," Sansa replied, although she was quite certain that both she and Shae knew the opposite to be true, "I must have forgotten about it."

"I'll have it washed before it is returned."

"No, leave it as it is," Sansa couldn't explain why, but she was sure that the Hound would want it back just as it was when he'd given it to her.

"Yes, my lady. And – there is something else," The way Shae said the words, Sansa knew it was nothing good.

"The king wishes to see you."

"Do you know why?" Sansa held her voice steady, but her hands subconsciously wrapped around herself, fully aware of the pain that was just now subsiding.

"I think it is to discuss Myrcella's sendoff tomorrow."

"What could he possible have to say to me about that?"

"I don't know. I'm sorry, my lady."

Sansa knew that Shae's "I'm sorry" was for something much deeper than simply not knowing why Joffrey wanted to see her.

"It's all right. Help me fix my hair."

Sansa could feel herself shaking as she sat down in front of the mirror.

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Sandor was standing outside the door to Joffrey's chambers when Sansa approached. She'd redone her hair, and despite her beautiful dress she looked like someone on a death march. Sandor could not blame her – she surely relished her time with Joffrey no more than he relished guarding the king's door.

"The king said he wished to see me," Sansa said, refusing to meet Sandor's eyes.

Sandor stepped aside, opening the door and realizing that he was doing his own little part to seal Sansa in hell. What the king did made no difference to him, except when it came to her. But he closed the door anyway, resuming his post outside and making all sorts of promises to himself about what he would do if he heard her screaming. Promises that he would never keep. He would remain at his post, like a good dog. Her situation did not – could not – involve him.

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"You asked to see me, my king," Sansa said when she entered the room, dipping into a curtsey.

Joffrey did not bother to turn around, keeping his gaze out the window.

"What do you think of my mother shipping Myrcella off tomorrow?" He asked.

Sansa froze for a moment. Questions like these were usually a trick – there was no obvious right or wrong answer, which meant that Joffrey could punish her no matter what she said.

"I believe that if it is the will of your family and the Gods, then it is good. I wish her well."

There. The safest answer she could give.

"But she will miss us, surely," Joffrey said, turning around, "As you miss your family."

There was a threat in his eyes, daring her to agree. Sansa dropped her gaze.

"You are my family," she replied, "I have no other."

"I hope that you speak the truth," Joffrey approached her, lifting her chin, "Because the rest of the Starks will soon be dead and rotting, just like your father."

Sansa tried to keep the tears from her eyes, but she knew Joffrey saw them.

"Are you crying for a traitor?" he asked, his voice soft and cold.

"No," Sansa already knew he wouldn't believe her.

The slap was hard – not the worst she'd gotten at his hand, but it stung her face and left her ears ringing. She let out a sharp cry.

"Let that be a reminder to you," Joffrey said, grabbing her hair and yanking her head back. Sansa whimpered. "I require unwavering loyalty, Sansa. That is not much to ask of my future wife." He let go, shoving her back. "And my mother wants you to attend Myrcella's sendoff tomorrow. That is all."

Sansa curtsied again, wishing Cersei could have simply told her to come to the sendoff herself. "Yes, my-"

"Out."

Rising, Sansa hurried to the door. That had not been as bad as she expected. Her face still hurt, and she knew he'd cut her cheek with his ring. But it was not so terrible. It would heal quickly.

Sandor was standing outside the door, eyeing her silently as she stepped out.

"What?" she asked sharply, knowing that he was looking at the blood she could feel on her face, "Why do you look surprised?"

The Hound said nothing, but made a move to reach for a cloth in his belt.

"No," Sansa said, "I will tend to this myself."

She did not want to want his help. This was at least one small thing she could handle on her own. One small thing that did not require anyone else running to her rescue. But even as she hurried down the hall, Sansa wondered what it would have felt like to have his rough hand caress her face, softly wiping away the newest of Joffrey's wounds.

But how much kindness could a dog really give?

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Sandor watched Sansa leave, his hand still frozen in a move to offer her his handkerchief. He couldn't blame her for walking away so quickly – after all, what woman wanted the help of a man who stood by silently while another hurt her?

It was not his business, but he hated to see the blood bloom on her pale face. Sandor had never hated the sight of blood before. He reveled in it on the battlefield, reveled in the way it splattered the earth as life drained from the men he killed. He gloried in it, preferring to see his sword red than clean.

Yet when he saw blood on Sansa Stark, it made him sick.